We lay in bed for hours Saturday morning. We had our arms around each other and talked – mostly about family. Elise had sent “thank you” notes to all the women in my family after our visit, and they had been corresponding with her ever since. Our mothers were writing to each other. Earlier in the week my father had flown into Green Bay to visit our corporate office there. My mother had flown in with him, and they had had dinner with the DuPrys. All this was news to me, but I was glad to hear our families were getting along.
Then there were Elise’s sisters, who appeared to be spending their summer vacation riding horses and planning Elise’s wedding. They were down to flower arrangements and the color scheme for the napkins.
“Speaking of weddings,” I asked, “have the girls decided when we will be married?”
“French engagements always last a year. My father reserved the National Cathedral for May 28th.”
“Good. I really liked those chapels on the west end of the Cathedral. Will we use the one we visited that one Sunday?”
“Actually, we won’t be using the chapels.” Elise stopped there, looked me straight in the eye and let me figure out the rest.
“We’re getting married in the sanctuary? We’d better bring in whole bus loads of Murphys.”
“It sounds like that is your family’s intention. As for DuPrys, you’d be surprised by how many of us there are.” Our conversation stopped there as I tried to imagine the scene. Good thing I had nearly a year to polish my shoes and get a haircut. During my reverie Elise moved even closer to me, and well, an hour or so later we showered and got dressed.
I ordered room service for breakfast and we sat around the table in my suite, eating eggs and catching up. Mostly Elise explained why she was in New Orleans.
“It is because of you. Of course I wanted to see you. I know I have been absent too much. But I am also here because of your example. After you called earlier this week and I heard you were in New Orleans, I mentioned it to several other people. Uncle Claude responded immediately."
“You see,” he said to all the others in the room. “That is what we should all be doing. The longer we sit up here in Green Bay, the better our plans are, but the closer we come to developing a bunker mentality. We begin to think of these people as alien beings. But they are French, just like us. We know them. A fourth of our colleagues in the ministries now live down there. We know their names, we know their children, we attended school with them. We should all go down there – today – and visit old friends.”
“It was great news to me, because it gave me a chance to come see you. So I made travel arrangements right away, as did many others. A few refused to make the trip, and there was some talk about security, but I pointed out that you had been walking the streets all week without any security, surely the rest of us could travel with light security.”
“That was the man with you last night?” I asked.
“Yes, Anton. He drives the car and watches out for me.”
“So you will be visiting former Ministry employees this weekend?” There must have been something in my voice or expression as this point, because Elise put down her fork and came over to sit on my lap.
“I will be with you all night, every night.” That certainly brightened my mood.
“I suppose in the meantime, I can keep reading up on their history. So much happened here, I feel badly about how little I know.”
“Speaking of history,” suddenly she was all business. “If you happen to run into other dates like August 24th, please pass them along.”
“I haven’t, but you should know this – history matters to these people. And they have real grievances. To begin with, I think Biloxi was a mistake for a cathedral location. This was their main port of entry. It’s their Jamestown or Plymouth Rock, or Ellis Island. The symbolism of a major cathedral there was just bad. Secondly, the Jolliets have problems down here. We see them saving the locals by providing food in their early years. But the farmers down here saw the Jolliets as undercutting their crop prices at a time when they were desperate for income. Of all the diaries in the archives here, Margaret made sure I saw one that talked about the Jolliets, so I assume there is some reason why she wanted me to know about that problem.”
“And third?” Unfortunately, Elise was shifting around on my lap. This was not the kind of conversation a reasonable man has with a beautiful woman sitting on his lap. To prove just how unreasonable I am, I kept talking about history.
“They are going to use history to rally the locals. I went to a terrible play last night. The playwright should be banned from word processors for life. But the crummy little theater they used was packed, and the audience gave the play a standing ovation, led by some folks with blue arm bands. They weren’t applauding the play, they were applauding a vision of history they want to promote – Louisiana as hero overcoming adversity. This particular play won’t go anywhere, but I would bet there will be other efforts.”
“You and Uncle Claude should talk. I will see if I can arrange dinner with him tomorrow.”
“Dinner is fine, but remember, I get you all night every night.” That got me a long kiss, and well, eventually we each finished getting dressed and headed out for the day. Elise gave me her cell phone number, I promised to keep my cell phone on, and we made general plans to meet back at the hotel early in the evening.
Normally, I would have headed straight back to the provincial library, but now I was not sure I could ever go back. Who was Margaret Riemard really? And if she was lying to me, was the reference librarian too? Monsieur Guillard seemed like such a nice man. But what role was he playing? No, I would keep my distance. Then it occurred to me there was a growing list of places I couldn’t go in New Orleans – the Granary, the South Side… How could a guy spend one week in a city and be unwelcome in so many places?
At least there was the National Library. I walked over thinking happily of the weeks I had spent doing research there in January. That was a mistake. The National Library I found in July bore little resemblance to the library I had used six months earlier. The metal detectors at the door were the first change, but not the last. Users now had to register at a desk near the door. Since I seemed to be the only person using the library that day, I walked right up to the desk and signed the registration form. A uniformed security guard sat on the other side of the desk waiting for me to finish the form. Then he asked for some identification. I pulled out my passport. Big mistake.
He must have pushed a button somewhere, because suddenly there was another security guard at each of my shoulders. They didn’t have weapons drawn, but they did have holsters.
“The National Library is not open to foreign nationals,” the guard said in heavily accented English.
“It was open to me in January,” I answered in French. “I am a history professor at the National University in Green Bay, and I am here to do historical research.” That brought a long pause as the guard tried to reconcile the American passport with the French job. Apparently he had been given a set of rules to follow, and I was not fitting those rules.
“Could I see your university identification, please?” Fortunately I had gotten my faculty ID earlier in the summer. I had thought it might be useful in getting a parking place. It had never occurred to me I would need it just to get into a public library. I handed him the ID. “Please wait here.” He said, and went off to talk to a supervisor or make a phone call. This was a decision he didn’t have the authority to make. Meanwhile, I stood in close proximity to two very large men who made it clear any sudden moves would be a mistake. Eventually the guard came back with a second man, a librarian I vaguely recalled from my visit in January.
“Doctor Murphy.” The librarian began, extending a hand over the counter. “It is good to see you again. Congratulations on the appointment to the university.”
“Thank you.” The two guards at my side disappeared, and the guard behind the
desk pressed a buzzer that let me through a half-door next to his station. The librarian waited for me on the other side of the door.
“How is your biography of the Jolliet family coming?”
“It has been going quite well, but as you can imagine, there have been some disruptions lately.”
“We have had our own disruptions. We have cut the serials budget 30% to pay for additional security, and then we received orders to further restrict access to the collection. These are not good times for people whose primary joy in life is sharing information.” He led me back towards the reference area, an area of beautiful wood work and long shelves of reference works. I felt much better the minute I was back on such familiar turf. I suspect it provided solace for him as well.
“I am surprised about the decision to forbid foreigners access to your materials. There is so much of value here.”
“In truth, our rule is to ban Americans.” He looked me straight in the eye as he said this. I could see he was uncomfortable, but he would not hide the truth. He was, after all, a librarian.
“But why?”
“Rumors, Professor Murphy, rumors. Americans have become the new boogie man. Americans are coming to invade, Americans are coming to plunder, Americans are coming to destroy. A squad of the Louisiana Nationalist Army could come in here, blue arm bands and all, and I could not keep them out. They are, after all, French. But Americans we can keep out. So we do. I hope the rumors are false and that all this turmoil can be resolved peacefully and soon.”
“Amen to that.”
“Now that I have explained our sorrows, how can I help your research?” I then explained my interest in Claude Jolliet – the one from the 1720s – and the research I wanted to do on his grain shipments. Monsieur DuBois seemed genuinely interested in helping me find materials. I was the only scholar in the library that day, and for all I knew, the only scholar he had seen all week. He quickly walked to a computer and accessed materials from several sources. This was obviously a topic he had reviewed before, since he knew to look not just under Claude Jolliet, but under “Illinois Grain Company” and “New Orleans Tariff Laws.” He printed off several sheets of access codes, and then started bringing me microfilm.
“We had hoped to get all these materials digitized this year,” he apologized as he brought another four rolls, “but every metal detector is less money available for updating our collection.”
“I love microfilm,” I replied. “It reminds me of being an undergraduate and the first time I could find a century’s worth of newspapers through the viewer. There is something about rolling through history that is very attractive.” He went off to pull more microfilm for me, while I threaded the machine and began cranking first through newspapers, then through court documents, and finally through corporate reports. In short, I was one happy, productive historian. Monsieur DuBois returned periodically to check on my progress and we had good talks about what I was finding. By five I was willing to attempt a preliminary summary.
“Please tell me if you agree with my initial interpretation,” I began. DuBois had taken a seat near me and was boxing up some of the films. “By 1710 farming has progressed so well along the Illinois River that Claude Jolliet and his partners are feeding all of Quebec and beginning to export back to France. By the way, I drove through those lands on my way back to Green Bay in February, and I am not at all surprised that farms there were so successful. We have nothing comparable in the U.S. In 1719 he tries taking a boat load of grain to New Orleans, but the trip is a disaster. The river is harder to navigate than he expects, and when he arrives in New Orleans all he finds are drunks and criminals. He sells his food at a loss and starts poling back up river – a tough job for a disappointed crew. OK so far?”
“You left out Baton Rouge, but you are right in the main. The first settlements were havens for criminals and drunks. Say what you will about the Huguenots, prior to their arrival these were pretty desperate outposts.”
“Jolliet hears about the Huguenots, somehow, and tries again in 1721. As I read it, that first year goes really well. People are half starved and none of the local farms have started producing much, so he not only makes a lot of money, he makes lots of friends. He and his crew stay in New Orleans for a week after their wares are sold, and even take a trip to Biloxi to meet with the leaders there. He gets to know his customers, and they get to know more about the river and about the folks up north.”
“Yes, he is practically a hero. We have a couple diaries down in archives that describe dances that were held in his honor, and parties. He was one popular man”
“But not for long.” I replied.
“There, I would be cautious. I think he was always popular with some parts of the population. He was generous with his money, careful with how his men behaved, and he was a charming man. He knew what to say and how to say it. And don’t forget his name. The Huguenots knew about his grandfather. In the world of 1720s New Orleans, Jolliet was a celebrity.”
“But that didn’t stop them from shooting him.”
“Unfortunately, you are correct. That did not stop them from shooting him. But we must leave off this discussion for the moment. The library closes at five on Saturdays. Shall we continue our talk at a café?”
“I would enjoy that, but I promised my fiancé that I would dine with her.”
“A fiancé! You have had a very successful spring. Would I have met her?”
“You may have. She did research here and in the Provincial library in January as well. She is Elise DuPry, now Doctor Elise DuPry.” Needless to say he had the same expression all men who know Elise have when they hear about our engagement.
“Congratulations.” That is what he said. What he meant was, you lucky dog, how did you pull that off? I thanked him, gathered up my notes, and headed for the exit. I suspected the first question Elise got when she explained our engagement was “Who the hell is Shawn Murphy?” But I didn’t care. She said “yes.” All the rest was just detail.
It was unbelievably hot outside so I stood for a minute at the top of the marble steps and adjusted to the heat. I also sent a text message to Elise “Done at library, to hotel.” My fingers are really too big to do much text messaging, but I didn’t want to disturb her if she was in a meeting. I put the phone away and started down the stairs only to see Margaret waiting for me under the shade of a tree. She was wearing a greenish floral print dress and seemed to fit perfectly into the background she had chosen. I hesitated for a second and almost tripped on the stairs, but then I continued down to her.
“I came to apologize.” She took a step toward me as I reached the sidewalk, but still stayed in the shade of the tree. While she was apologizing, she didn’t look particularly upset or uncomfortable. She looked at me with the same calm she always had, looking regal somehow. I could see her now as a beauty queen. She had the poise. “I wanted to impress you, so I inflated my credentials.”
“I understand you are not the archivist for the library.” I stopped a couple steps from her. I was still in the sun, but I had this odd feeling that if I stepped into the shade with her, I would somehow be stepping into her space, a space she had prepared for me.
“Not the permanent archivist. I did intern at the library as an undergraduate. That much is true. When I graduated I thought I might try a career in modeling, so I entered some pageants, got a few jobs, even had a small part on a television show. But the last year or so I have been looking for something more substantial. So I checked back with the library and they said I could fill in for the archivist while he was on vacation. It would be one way for me to see if I liked the job and wanted to head back to school for a masters.”
“Actually that is a very reasonable strategy. I hope you like the job and go back for that Information Studies degree. The world needs good librarians.” I hoped I sounded like an older brother or the professor I would be in the fall. I gave my adv
ice and took a step down the street.
“Shawn, the diaries are real. I read fifty or sixty while I was an undergraduate. The three I showed you made me cry. If you want to understand Louisiana, and our cause, remember those diaries.”
“Good by, Margaret.” I walked down the street and back toward the hotel. I was even more hot and more uncomfortable now, but I just kept walking. Was she telling the truth this time? Did it matter? I kept walking.
On the way back to my hotel I stopped and bought some flowers. Everything was in bloom that time of year, so I bought a mixed bouquet of cut flowers and took them up to my room. It took me a few minutes to find something that I could use as a vase, but I got the flowers out on a table in the middle of my sitting room, and I thought they looked pretty good. Now it was just a matter of waiting for Elise. She called a bit after six to tell me she was on her way. I would see her in half an hour. That gave me time to call room service and have a couple trays of chilled vegetables and chilled fruit sent up along with wine. What wine goes with vegetables and fruit? I couldn’t guess, so I asked room service to figure something out and send it all up. All I knew for sure was that we were eating in.
Elise arrived at the same time as the room service people. They wheeled a table into the room, I signed for a huge tip, and then I kissed Elise the instant the door closed behind them.
“Tell me you had a great day.” I began.
“I had a great day.” She kissed me again and then looked around the room. “Flowers and room service. Thank you.” We pulled the rolling table around near the couch and sat down.
“At this point you tell me that you love me, and that everyone you talked with today admitted they made a huge mistake and want to move back to Green Bay.”
“I love you. But excuse me a minute. I need to take off this stupid Huguenot dress. I feel like I am dressed for my first communion.” She did look odd in her long white cotton dress -- pretty, but odd. She disappeared into the bedroom and came out about ten minutes later wearing the red silk gown she had worn months before when we had visited Claude Jolliet. As always, I thought my heart would stop, just to look at her.
“Thank you.” She said.
“For what?”
“For the way you look at me when I walk into a room.” She sat next to me and took my hand. There wasn’t much more to be said after that. I put an arm around her and we just sat for a long time. I began to wonder if this evening would end the way so many had in June, with her falling asleep in my arms. But then she began to describe her day.
“It could have been much worse. I called three people and all three agreed to see me. Philippe worked in the budget section of the ministry. I had met him years ago at various parties, and when I began visiting the Ministry prior to working there, he was one of the people I was introduced to as a good person to help plan and control a budget. He has an apartment now south of the river, and I met him there. I knew where things stood the minute I came through the door, because he was wearing a blue arm band. Leave it to Philippe to be that direct. No wondering about his politics, he made it clear immediately.
I made the pitch we had all been told the make – he was welcome back any time. No resignations had been formally accepted. The payroll people had marked him and everyone else as “on leave.” He could come back with no loss of seniority or pension. We wanted him back.
“He was courteous. I will give him that. But I could tell just from the way he sat – stiff, formal, unsmiling – that he wasn’t coming back. He had been offered a job in the provincial government, and depending upon how the September elections went, he might have a place in the new national government. This had been his family’s home for centuries. This is where he belonged. So I asked. Why break up the country? What is so wrong with the way things have been for three centuries? His response?
“We are just too different. This has never really been one country. We have just been pretending all these years. This break up should have happened many years ago.”
“What do you say to that? I finished my coffee and left. Marguerite was next on my list. I called her from the car and she invited me right over. She was sharing a small house with her sister. The house was much too small for the two families and all their children. She invited me out into the backyard and we sat drinking lemonade while mobs of children played on swings and jumped in and out of a small rubber pool.
“We had trouble hearing each other over the shrieks of the children, but I explained again that she was welcome back. Hers had been a clerical post – an administrative assistant to an assistant director, but everyone loved her, and we really did want her back. And I was certain she wanted to come back. She said her kids missed their friends back in Green Bay, and it was taking her and her husband longer than they had thought to find new jobs and a new place to live. But, some kid had threatened her children at school in Green Bay. The kids had come home scared. They didn’t even know they were Huguenots. She had to explain what that meant. They attended a Calvinist church maybe three times a year, and the kids were aware that they weren’t Catholic, but that hadn’t meant anything to them – or to her – until the incident at school. She had rushed right over to the school to talk with the teacher, but he was a smug old man who said if kids wanted to believe in “a dangerous religious cult” they shouldn’t be too surprised if other kids were unhappy about it. She had kept the kids home from the school the next day, as it happened school was cancelled anyway, and they had moved down here the next week.
“I told her things had calmed down a lot in Green Bay, and I would help her find a better school for her children in the fall, but she just said she would wait down here until things were settled one way or the other.
“My last visit was the worst. Monsieur Gaugin was actually my boss for my first week in the Ministry. I didn’t see him much. He was a director and I was just a new person going through orientation, but I heard a great deal about him. He was highly respected. He was around sixty and had run the financial directorate for nearly thirty years. He knew about every dollar of revenue in the country and could tell you the expenditures of every department off the top of his head. He had a small horse farm on the country, just a bit down the road from my family’s place, and I had seen him many times growing up. This was the visit I had most expected to go well, and so it really hurt when it went badly. To tell you the truth, I broke down and cried halfway through our conversation.”
“What did he say?” For a minute there I thought she would start crying a second time, but she caught her breath and continued.
“He said he had spent thirty years watching the national government steal the wealth of Louisiana. He had been waiting for decades for some leader in Louisiana to stand up for the province. Now that it had finally happened, he was determined to help that party succeed – by any means necessary. If you had seen the look on his face while he said those last four words, he was so frightening at that moment, and so ugly. I had always thought of him as a family friend, and here he was threatening me. I left and we came back here, and you were waiting for me with flowers and wine.”
“Don’t forget the vegetables.” I added.
“And fruit too.” She was laughing now. She had willed herself into a mood change, determined to have some joy this evening. “Please tell me about your day. Tell me you found a diary that describes all the good times down here, that shows everyone having a huge party and celebrating life.”
“Actually I spent the day reading about how the first Claude Jolliet was shot.” Somehow that got us laughing. I know it sounds strange in hindsight, but it was just so awful following Elise’s three stories of woe, that we just had to laugh. The whole situation was absurd and overwhelming. So we laughed at it. We drank more wine, ate fruit, kissed, laughed, and laughed some more. And that is how we spent the rest of our evening. Thank God we were able to laugh, because from that point
on, things just kept getting worse.
Chapter 10
Old Priests plus an Assassination Attempt
The Canadian Civil War Volume 2- The Huguenots Arrive Page 10